Canoeing with Joe – the stuff of which legends (and pork chops) are made
Years ago I tested the waters in the freelance writing market.
I was in no danger of drowning, much less getting my feet wet. Among the best-paying magazines was a publication catering to avid paddlers. So I sent off for writers’ guidelines.
I read through a list of topics the editors might have been interested in and entertained thoughts of submitting a query letter or manuscript. Till I came to the last item in the list of potential topics. It read something to the effect that, “We’re not interested in stories about canoeing adventures with your buddy Joe.”
I knew right then that this was a nonstarter because that was all I had to offer. Joe stories.
Of course, I would go on to make a career of telling Joe stories. When I wasn’t covering village council meetings or ribbon-cuttings for a daily paper. Which brings us to the topic of this week’s column — Joe.
Joe Hughes claims he was born and raised somewhere in Indiana. I often suspected he was not referring to the state of Indiana but to a planet by the same name in a distant galaxy. He’s always seemed otherworldly.
That quality made him a hit on canoe trips. And scared some people. Which made him all the more entertaining.
Canoe trip motto: 'It ain't no fashion show out here'
In recent years, Joe has struggled with health issues and has lost a lot of weight. Back in the day he was a big boy, pushing 300 pounds. His long dark hair and full beard made him look like a biker. But his wardrobe — specifically his canoe trip wardrobe — betrayed that look.
Joe set the standard for canoe trip attire. Lowered the bar as it were. And gave us our motto: “It ain’t no fashion show out here.”
Joe wore clothes that looked like he slept in them. Because he did. He was so big, he often ripped out the seam in the seat of his rain pants, which he mercifully patched with duct tape. An oversized raincoat often completed the look — along with huge yellow boots, the kind you wear over your shoes. Which would make them about a size 25.
His attire was part of the entertainment. Not so much around camp or on the river, but on mandatory stops at the grocery store. Mandatory because Joe typically did his grocery shopping for a canoe trip while en route to the river.
Ordinarily such delays would be annoying. But you couldn’t beat the entertainment value of stopping at Kroger or Buehler’s with Joe in his full canoe trip regalia. For best results, I would put some distance between Joe and me. Not because I was embarrassed to be seen with him, but so I could better see the looks on shoppers’ faces when they encountered him.
Campsite visited by Loudonville police
Joe would lumber down the aisles of the grocery store in his huge boots and tattered rain suit, grabbing items from the shelves. People would recoil in horror when they saw him approach and quickly retreat to some other aisle — regardless of whether there was something there they needed. Mothers would gather their children and usher them to safety, looking nervously over their shoulders to make sure Joe hadn’t followed.
Sometimes I’d sidle up to the nervous mothers and reassure them that Joe was harmless, that he’d eaten his fill of children that day.
Joe was what you’d call an impulse shopper. He’d scoop up huge packages of pork chops or chicken breasts — those so-called family-size packages that were as long as your arm.
Sometimes I’d try to reason with him.
“Joe, there are only three of us,” I’d say. “We’re never going eat all that.”
I suspect he was buying extra in case we had visitors at our campsites. Which we did on a few occasions. Including the Loudonville Police.
It was a cold, snowy winter night. They had seen our campfire in the woods along state Route 3 and hiked out to investigate.
The officers seemed content that, in spite of appearances, we were harmless. Just three old guys out canoeing and camping in the snow.
Joe had his family-size rack of pork chops cooking on the tripod grill. He kept offering them to the cops.
“You guys sure you don’t want some pork chops?” he asked as they prepared to retreat to the warmth of their cruisers. “We’ve got plenty.”
Which hastened their retreat. And no doubt gave them a Joe story of their own to share. Guaranteed to be more entertaining than anything you’d read in one of those fancy paddling magazines.
(To be continued.)
This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Camping and canoeing with Joe Hughes leads to many humorous stories
